


Tomorrow can wait

by ardhesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x03 spoilers!, F/M, braime is subtext but it's stronger than ever, implied Jonsa, post 8x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 03:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18683491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardhesia/pseuds/ardhesia
Summary: When Jon sees Viserion passing away before his eyes, he can’t believe it. One moment it was dreadfully growling at him, ready to burn him alive with its mortal blue fire, and the next it was just gone. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the Night King must be dead too. Panting, he turns around in the ruined courtyard. Bodies are laying everywhere, burnt corpses with unrecognizable traits, northemen, unsullied, free folks, weights, all the same in the frightful hug of death. Blood and ashes and ruins are the real protagonists of the scene. Everything is silent. Even his own mind is shut off. He can’t feel anything, and for one single moment standing there, alone, alive, is almost peaceful.or my attempt to write something about Jon.





	Tomorrow can wait

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first fic written in English and it's also the first time I write in the got/asoiaf fandom, so I'm a bit panicking right now. This work came out quite spontaneously and I think of it as an experiment. There's gonna probably be some mistakes, I'm sorry, but English isn't my first language! Hope you like it! 
> 
> Desclaimer: none of these characters are mine. They all belong to George R.R. Martin's pen.

When Jon sees Viserion passing away before his eyes, he can’t believe it. One moment it was dreadfully growling at him, ready to burn him alive with its mortal blue fire, and the next it was just  _ gone _ . It takes him a few seconds to realize that the Night King must be dead too. Panting, he turns around in the ruined courtyard. Bodies are laying everywhere, burnt corpses with unrecognizable traits, northmen, unsullied, free folks, wights, all the same in the frightful hug of death. Blood and ashes and ruins are the real protagonists of the scene. Everything is silent. Even his own mind is shut off. He can’t feel anything, and for one single moment standing there, alone, alive, is almost peaceful. But then the pain rushes in and hits him, like a river in flood. His body aches, his arms are pulsating for the weight of the sword that he lets fall on the ground. His legs collapse too.  _ It’s over _ , he thinks, kneeling on dust with closed eyes.  _ The Night King is dead, _ and he almost doesn’t believe his own words. He lets out a chuckle. After his resurrection he had always believed it would be him the one who’d kill the the Night King at the end. He had always thought that was the reason why he had been brought back. And seeing now how things ended he can’t help but silently laugh at himself. His stream of thoughts is interrupted when suddenly muffled and indistinguishable voices come in. He stops laughing and lets his eyes fall on the mass entering the courtyard. He sees Jaime Lannister, covered in blood and dust, leaning on a woman, Brienne of Tarth. They’re smiling at each other, glad to be both alive. More and more people start coming in, and swiftly the room is filled with smiles and laughters and tears of joy. He can see injured soldiers helping each other to stand up, and women with crying children cautiously stepping outside.He should stand up and go looking for Bran, but then he hears someone saying that the crypts were attacked, that the dead kings and lords of the North were not so dead. His mind goes immediately to her.  _ Sansa _ . Sansa who was in the crypts because he told her to stay there, thinking she’d be in the safest place of the castle. Sansa who might be dead because of  _ him _ . His heart starts racing, filled with terror. He’s up on his feet in a second and he moves as fast as he can, ignoring all the glares and those who try to talk to him. He arrives at the opening of the crypts, searching her with his eyes among all those heads, worry growing in his chest every second. And then, she’s there, and she’s more beautiful than ever. Relief invades his heart. She’s helping an old woman to walk out, her hand on the woman’s waist, red locks caressing her cheek. She leaves her in the care of a young girl, and then she takes a breath. He can see she’s still shocked, she’s almost trembling. He runs to her with unsteady legs and when she turns to him he can see stupor in those blue glossy eyes. Her lips part in a silent “oh” before he pulls her in the tightest hug they’ve ever shared. His arms are firmly on her back, while hers are locking around his neck. His face is hidden in her soft and messy hair, and he can feel her shaking against his body. He tightens his embrace, hoping to be giving her the reassurance that she needs, that they  _ both  _ need. They stay quiet for what it looks an eternity to him, enjoying each other’s warm and support. She’s the one to sightly pull away. A single tear streaming down her cheek, and he brushes it away with a thumb without thinking. She looks him in the eye and he can see a mix of guilt and love and relief in her irises. “I failed them, Jon - I… I was supposed to keep them safe an- and then those … skeletons wake up - I didn’t- I didn’t know wha-” she starts rambling.. He’s immediately to her, taking a lock of red hair behind her ear. “Hey, no, don’t do that to you, okay?” he searches for her eyes. “It’s not your fault. We should all have thought that it could have happened.” She nods, not very convinced of his words. “Are you hurt?” he asks scanning her looking for any injury. “No, I’m not, but many are. I tried to defend me and Tyrion with this” and she points at a small dagger that she’s still holding in her hand. “Arya gave me.” she answers before he can ask. “Where’s Arya? Where’s Bran? What happened? Are they okay?”. He looks down, he doesn’t have the answers that she longs for. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.” he admits shyly. “I was fighting Viserion when he’s suddenly died. Someone must have killed the Night King, and then I heard a boy saying that the crypts were attacked and - and all I could thought about was that - that you were hurt or… worse. I couldn’t lose you.” He feels ashamed for letting out his feelings like this, for not having gone to the godswood as he was supposed to do. Now it’s Sansa’s turn to look for his eyes and to cup his bruised cheek. She’s still a little shaking, he can see that, but she tries to be strong. She tries not to think the worst of Arya and Bran’s fate. She stops herself from searching his lips too. Then she lets her hand fall from his face and takes his. She interweaves her fingers with his and glances with a soft smile at their joined hands. “Let’s go get our family” she says, the shadows of dawn caressing her features.

 

                                                                                                         »—————————–«

  
Later that night Jon is finally in his bedroom. He spent all day helping to free the castle from dead bodies and rubble. He didn’t have time to rest, and he actually didn’t want to. But when the sun had set on Winterfell and everyone started yawning and leaving for bed, he had no other options but trying to sleep as well. As he closes the door of his room he feels a sense of surreality. Being there, in the quiet of the night, as opposed to the screams and noise of the one before, is so weird. He feels like something is off. Trying to ignore those feelings he starts to unbutton his jerkin. He throws it away on a chair along with his breeches, and remains in his smallclothes. His body is full of bruises and stitched wounds, it aches with every movement, but he doesn’t care. The aching of his limbs is nothing compared to the pain he feels for losing Edd. Sam told him how he died, and he can’t help thinking that if he was there, amongst his people and his brothers, having each other’s back, maybe he would be still alive.  _ There’s no use thinking about it now. What’s done is done. _ He says to himself while laying on his bed under the sheets. He feels sorry even for Theon. When he entered the godswood alongside Sansa and saw him still on the ground, with open glassy eyes, snow covering his already cold body, he felt a punch in his stomach. Seeing Sansa’s face wet with tears as she brushed Theon’s curly hair for the last time was even worse. But thinking about those things wouldn’t help him to fall asleep, he realizes. He closes his eyelids and tries to clean his mind from such thoughts. However, blurry images start running before his eyes: the chaos of the battle, blood, screams, terror, claws against claws, blue flames almost caressing his skin, blue eyes and rotten hands reaching out to him.  _ I should be dead _ , he realizes.  _ I shouldn’t be here _ . He wasn’t even able to do what he was brought back for, and he was still alive. How could it be?  And now what? What is supposed to do? Should he help Daenerys in taking Cersei down, or should he fight for his own claim to the Iron Throne? Is this what he wants? To be the king of the bloody Seven Kingdoms? To have other responsibilities weighing him down? He turns to sleep on his left side, before laying again on his back. Staring at the ceiling, he sighs. He knows the answer. Above all, he knows his heart. That’s not what he wants. Fighting for the living has been the main purpose of his life in the past few years, he’s always thought he’d have died challenging the Night King. He has never allow himself to hope to survive the war, to dream of spring and of … ruling the North with Sansa. No, no, even now he can’t permit himself to think such things. His eyes are burning, his head heavy as lead.  He forces himself to sleep, to ignore the misery of the unknown for one night. At the moment his future may be uncertain, his own identity is more ambiguous than ever, but he knows he’s not alone. He has Sam, Arya, Bran, Davos, and  _ her _ .  _ I’ll figure it out _ , he swears to himself. Maybe, like love, life too needs to be built stone by stone. But it can wait till tomorrow. He had enough of worry and fear. For one night he deserves to lay his head, light on pillow. For one night he can enjoy the warm embrace of the sheets and furs, and sleep safe and sound like a kid again, without the risk of hearing the dreadful sound of horns. Not for the first night, when he finally falls asleep he dreams of red hair and radiant blue eyes. 


End file.
